Letter to Mariana: The Fantasy I Never Confessed to You

Dear Mariana:

You’re never going to read this letter. I’m writing it in the dimness of my room, with the window open onto a sticky January night, the almost-full moon coming in through the half-open blinds and the ceiling fan stirring the air without easing the heat. I’m writing it with my left hand because my right is occupied with something else—you’ll understand what in a moment—and I’m writing it knowing I’ll never send it. It’s a confession with no one to receive it. I’m writing to you to finally let go of everything I’ve been swallowing for years every time you appeared at the building entrance, hanging off Federico’s arm, with that married woman’s smile and those pants of yours that outlined your ass so perfectly they forced me to look at the floor.

You knew. I’m sure of it. There’s no way to move through the world like that without knowing. You were twenty-nine, Federico spent his life shut away in the law office, and every time you rode the elevator with me, biting your lip and letting out a nervous laugh, I’d go down to my apartment breathing hard and get into the shower to masturbate before the heat passed. You never knew, or you pretended not to. It makes no difference. Your image, alone or multiplied into dozens of scenes, produced whole rivers of cum that ran between my fingers with your name in my mouth.

Do you remember that week in Punta del Este? We went as a big group and rented Nacho’s uncle’s house. You showed up on the second day in that orange bikini: a tiny triangle below, two more triangles above, and strings tied at your hips and back with knots that seemed designed to make anyone want to untie them. I spent hours watching you out of the corner of my eye, waiting for one of them to come loose on its own. It never did. You knew exactly what you were doing, Mariana. And I knew exactly what I was doing when I went into the bathroom after watching you come out of the water, the fabric clinging to your shaved vulva and your nipples standing out beneath the wet triangle, and jerked off standing against the tiles, biting my forearm so Federico wouldn’t hear me panting on the other side of the wall.

I wasn’t horny all the time back then. I had Carla, my girlfriend at the time, and Carla and I had good sex. We fucked almost every day. She’d sit on top and ride me until she came, and sometimes I told her my fantasies because hearing me talk turned her on. I told her lots of things. But not everything. I never told her that in the beach house’s showers, while she napped upstairs, I jerked off thinking about you until I came against the bathroom wall. I never told her that afterward I’d wash my face with cold water, come out as if nothing had happened, and watch you from the deck chair, wondering what the hell I’d do to you if you ever gave me the chance.

Time passed. You split up with Federico, and the two of you moved away. Your image grew blurry, like an old photograph that had lost its edges. One day I realized I no longer jerked off thinking about you. Another day I realized I could no longer remember your face very well. Another day Julia came into my life, and then Julia left, and then another woman came, and then another. And every so often, very rarely, some stranger’s back in the street, some waist moving with that cadence of yours that was unique, would make me feel a prick in my nape and my groin at the same time.

Like tonight. I’m alone, Mariana. I already told you. The window is open, the moon is coming in whole, and a little while ago I had a glass of red wine that went to my head more than I expected. I started stroking my cock slowly, without thinking about anyone in particular. And suddenly you appeared. I don’t know why. Maybe a perfume on the stairs that drifted in through the elevator shaft. Maybe a face on the subway that reminded me of yours. Maybe the damn moon, which was just as full the last night I saw you in the building lobby, your hair wet from the gym and your jacket open, revealing the cleavage of your sports bra.

I’m lying naked on the bed, my right hand on my cock and my left scribbling this letter in a notebook I bought for something else. My dick is hard as it hasn’t been in months. The veins stand out. A thick thread glistens at the tip of my glans in the moonlight. And the only thing I can think about is your mouth. What your mouth would be like. How you’d open it. What sound you’d make when I shoved my cock down your throat.

So let me tell you, Mariana, the fantasy I’m going to cum to in a little while. Let me tell you all of it. It’s not as if you’re ever going to read it.

***

You ring the bell at two in the morning. I open the door. You’re wearing the same gym jacket, your hair wet, your face without makeup. You don’t speak. You look at me. I don’t speak either. I grab you by the wrist, pull you inside, shut the door with my foot, and shove you against the wall in the foyer. I kiss you as if I were starving. I kiss you, biting your lower lip until you let out a moan that escapes against my neck. With one hand I grab your wet hair, and with the other I pull down the zipper of your jacket. Beneath it you’re wearing your black gym top, wet too, and your nipples show through the fabric.

“I knew you’d come someday,” I tell you in your ear, biting your earlobe.

“And I knew you’d be waiting for me,” you answer.

I yank your top upward. Your tits catch as they come out, and both of them end up level with my face. I suck one nipple first and then the other, unhurriedly, biting them until you draw in a sharp breath. You pull my hair, dig your nails into my nape, arch against my mouth. Saliva dribbles down my chin. I move lower, licking between your tits, over your navel, along the waistband of your workout pants. When I kneel in front of you, there’s a dark, wet patch right in the center of your pants, and I press my nose there and breathe deeply, and you let out a hoarse laugh that sounds like surrender.

I pull down your pants and panties in one motion, down to your knees. The shaved vulva I fantasized about that summer is there, an inch from my face, soaked and shining. I grab your ass, spread you with my thumbs, and bury my tongue in your clitoris. You clutch my hair with both hands and arch your pelvis against my mouth. I suck you, lick you, push my tongue deep inside and pull it out, push it back in, alternating with your clitoris until you start to tremble. I don’t let you come. When you’re about to cum, I stand up, turn you around against the wall, and grab your hair from behind.

“Not yet,” I tell you. “I’ve been waiting years for you. You’re not going to come in two minutes.”

I pull your pants all the way down, spread your legs with my knee, grab your buttocks with both hands, and open them. You press your forehead against the plaster and arch your ass backward, waiting. I pull down my boxers with one hand, press the tip of my cock against the entrance to your cunt, and plunge it in, all the way, until you let out a hoarse cry that bounces down the hallway. I stay still for a second, listening to your ragged breathing, feeling your cunt squeeze and throb around my cock.

“Move,” you beg me. “Fuck me. Fuck me the way you imagined.”

And I start fucking you. Slowly at first, with long thrusts, feeling you from end to end. I grab your hair, bend your back, bite your shoulder. I squeeze one tit with my free hand. You touch your clitoris with two fingers while I keep thrusting into you from behind. You set the pace higher, not me. You ask me to go harder, you ask me to go faster, you ask me to pull your hair, dig my fingers into your hips, bite your neck, whisper filthy things in your ear.

“Slut,” I tell you. “You’re a slut. Your whole life waiting for this. Your whole life moving like that in front of me, knowing I’d end up fucking you against a wall.”

“Yes,” you pant. “Yes, yes, yes. Break me, come on, break me.”

I turn you around again, lift you off the floor, and press you against the wall with your legs crossed around my waist. I thrust into you again, deeper now, my mouth clamped onto your neck and my hands beneath your ass, supporting your whole weight. I push it into you and pull it out at a rhythm I can no longer control. You dig your nails into my back hard enough to hurt me. I bite your neck until I leave marks. The foyer fills with the sound of skin against skin, my breathing against your ear, your moans bouncing off the walls.

“I’m coming,” you warn me. “I’m coming, I’m coming, don’t stop.”

And you come hanging from my neck, your legs closing around my waist like scissors, and I feel your cunt contracting in hot spasms around my cock. You drag me along with you. I grip your ass hard, hold you pressed against the wall, and empty myself inside you with my mouth open against your collarbone, shooting hot streams of cum that begin to run between your thighs before I’ve finished coming.

We stay like that for a while, holding each other, panting, without speaking. The moon is still coming through the living-room window. You rest your forehead on my shoulder and laugh softly. I stroke your back with my hand, slick with sweat.

“All this time,” you murmur.

“All this time,” I answer.

***

I finish writing that last sentence, Mariana, and suddenly come. My cum shoots as far as my navel and runs down the side of my hand, staining the sheet. I let out a long sigh, almost a whimper. My cock keeps throbbing between my fingers for a while, still hard, with no desire to go soft.

I lie there staring at the ceiling, the notebook tossed to one side and the letter half-dry. Outside, a dog barks at nothing. The moon has shifted a little, and now the shadow of the fan draws a spinning black circle on the wall. I think of you, Federico, Julia, Carla, all the lives that crossed mine and kept going. I think that we’re always longing for what we can’t have. And I think maybe that’s the only way it won’t break: never having it.

I’m not going to send you this letter, Mariana. I’m going to keep it in the drawer where I store the memories and the jerk-off sessions I can’t talk about. And tomorrow, when I wake up, I’ll remember your face more clearly than I did a few hours ago. That’s all. That’s the only thing I’m taking with me tonight.

Good night, Mariana. Wherever you’re sleeping, I’m still thinking about you.